


Monsters Are Made To Be Made

by nothing_rhymes_with_ianto



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-05
Updated: 2012-12-05
Packaged: 2017-11-20 09:16:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/583722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothing_rhymes_with_ianto/pseuds/nothing_rhymes_with_ianto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She has the power to bring life, the power to control it in some form. If only the others would realize what this could do for the world!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Monsters Are Made To Be Made

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the "assault" square of angst_bingo.

Earlier in the year, Toshiko’s monitors had gone crazy and hadn’t shut up the entire three hours she’d been attempting to narrow down the signal. The artefact, of course, was in the middle of the water. Suzie and Jack went out while Ianto and Tosh stayed behind, leaving Owen to be the unfortunate driver of the boat. They fished the glove out of the Bay. Rather, Suzie found it at the bottom of the ocean and carried it up to the boat without taking her eyes off it.

The glove fascinates Suzie. She likes the name Toshiko gave it better. ‘The Resurrection Gauntlet.’ It sounds fancier and more respectful. It suits the alien-medieval form of its construction and the alluring shine of its metal. She knew it was incredible the moment she saw it. Of course, she’s the only one it sparks for. She’s not surprised. She’s the only one in this underground cave that cares what these things could do for the world, instead of how they’re made or how to destroy them.

Suzie is a genius. She knows it. She can pick up any skill with ease, can file away any piece of information and recall it easily. She is aware of the world outside in a way that the others aren’t. Suzie went to college, got three degrees: one in chemistry, one in biology, and one in literature. Reading and discovering are her favourite things. She is enraptured by anything new and unknown. Learning the unknown until it is no longer so is her passion. So she’s drawn to the glove, for its unknown-ness, its compounds, its elegant design. She wants to know it intimately.

There’s a bizarre _spark_ whenever Suzie touches the gauntlet, a bright-black connection that feels like life and she spends hours studying it, sliding it onto her hand and feeling the dead cold metal warm and buzz in her hands, like a quiet sigh in her mind. She loves each sensation it brings, the spark of contact, the hum of life in this dead workplace.

She’s been examining the gauntlet for months now, researching its metal and style and the sensation it brings, the addictive whispering _click_ , like Williams’ Brick. But she only figures out what it does when she sees the knife. Jack retrieves it on a run and casually hands it to her to study. He’s already halfway across the Hub talking to Tosh and doesn’t notice the way Suzie has frozen, mouth slightly open and eyes wide, her hands caressing the three-pronged blade, her breath short. She recognizes the spark, the familiar rush and whisper.

So she experiments on goldfish. They’re easy to get; there’s enough pet stores around that no one will get suspicious. Just using the glove alone emits a spark when she lets the fish die a natural death. If she starves them, the spark is stronger. So she decides to try something new. She removes a fish from the tank and spears it on the tip of the knife. This spark is strong, and Suzie feels something dark pulling at her, something meeting her and tugging and then the fish is flopping on her desk, gasping for air, just for five seconds or so. Then it stills and Suzie is left gazing at the wet orange carcass and panting for breath. Goldfish are scarce in the pet shops until Suzie realizes she needs to try out a different subject.

Rats are next, bigger. The spark is stronger with them, and Suzie knows it’s because of their size. The knife, too, creates a larger spark, the whisper and pull is stronger. But even the rats only stay alive for half a minute or so. But with them, she discovers the importance of struggle, violence, pain in the strength of the spark and the length of resurrection. She has the power to bring life, the power to control it in some form. If only the others would realize what this could do for the world! If only they could hear the quiet whisper, feel the beautiful sensation of the spark, of the cool metal heating to warm life. She wishes there were words enough to describe it, wishes she could write poetry accurate enough to portray its twilit splendour.

Some days she feels like she needs the glove, and keeps it out, beside her on the desk as she works. It seems to hum quietly to her as it rests on the wood. The high whisper of its metal connection is seductive now, and sometimes she brings fish back just for fun. Just to feel the spark.

Of course now the spark is so small, so light for her. And she’s sure that this glove can be used for the good of humanity. She’s sure the ringing black call of the metal can be used to better the lives of others. But she needs to test it, and there’s only one way for that.

She goes to a club; one she knows is usually full of lonely sods looking for someone to talk to or fuck or both. She scans the crowd and nurses a drink. The gauntlet and the knife make her bag heavy, but the buzz from their whispers and the fainter buzz of the alcohol make it seem lighter. She scopes the place until she sees a small woman with short, messy hair, wearing a faded knit dress over torn jeans. A whisper seems to tell her that this woman won’t have anyone to find her gone.

Her name is Sasha, and she’s just moved here from London because her family were killed in the terrorist attack on Canary Wharf, and her partner died of cancer three years before and she’s depressed and couldn’t pay rent on her expensive flat in the city. She just wants company, a connection.

“Why don’t we go back to my place,” Suzie soothes. This girl isn’t exactly her type, but she’s lucky because Torchwood has taught her that the absence of ‘type’ can be quite a good thing. “You’ll have some company, then, and I’ll have someone to share dinner with.”

Sasha is just on the agreeable side of drunk, and nods enthusiastically. “If you like.”

Suzie smiles softly and puts her hand over Sasha’s. “I really would.” Sasha’s smile brightens and her fingers curl and Suzie knows she’s got her.

Sasha natters away in the car and Suzie listens with half an ear, nodding and making noise in all the right places. The buzz of the gauntlet and the knife, nestled together like lovers in her bag, is filling her body and she knows it’s time.

The parking lot she pulls into is old and ugly and decrepit, and Suzie knows from both research and prior Torchwood investigations that no one even looks out their window at screams or gunshots or fighting. Getting out of the car, she smiles reassuringly, even as she senses Sasha’s apprehension.

“Hang on a tick, I’ve got to find my keys and the lottery ticket I promised my neighbour.”

Sasha climbs out of the car as Suzie fumbles a moment for the knife. It hums a greeting to her and the metal sings in her mind when he hand closes over its hilt.

“What are you doing?” Sasha has walked around the bonnet of the car to stand beside her and Suzie can feel the moment she sees the moonlight glinting off the blade. The girl tenses, but Suzie has been conditioned by Torchwood, and her reflexes are fast and her instincts are keen. She stays calm and grips the girl’s arm.

“This has to happen, Sasha. I’m sorry. It’s a test.”

“Wh-what?” Suzie can see the reflection of the knife in Sasha’s big blue eyes, the fear in them making the blade seem even more magnificent.

The metal sings and whispers and she clenches a hand over the girl’s mouth. The first descent of the knife is a long slash across shoulder and chest as Sasha bucks and struggles to get away. Her cry of pain and terror is muffled by Suzie’s fingers. Blood blooms red across her blue knit dress, out over the tear in the cloth.

The second descent is true, and Suzie watches the young woman’s blood slide across the glinting blade of the knife, watches the light fade out of her eyes. Pulls the blade out and wraps it in heavy cloth, tucking it away in the trunk of her car.

Sasha’s body is strangely light as Suzie carries it to the alley behind the ugly brick building of flats. She lays the body out again and slides the glove on, uttering a little gasp at the strength of the connection. The glove hums loudly, chatters, and somehow seems pleased with the job it is about to perform. She starts the timer on her wristwatch and slides her hand to cup the girl’s head.

The spark is immediate and strong, the hum and pull of the living dark grips her tightly, the buzz tingling and loud and beauteous, and then there’s the tug and a gasp of air and Sasha is twitching to life.

“What? What’s happened? Hello?”

Suzie bends over to look at Sasha’s face, and barely manages to suppress her own flinch when Sasha recoils away from her. “I’m sorry. I had to.”

“Had to what? What did you do? Who _are_ you? Why does it hurt?”

“It was a test. I had to kill to see if I could bring someone back to life, and how long. I’m sorry.”

“What?” The girl is hyperventilating, her eyes searching the dark sky wildly. “I—No!”

But the tug releases before Sasha can say anything more and Suzie relinquishes her grip on the head slowly. She cradles her gloved hand for a long moment before slowly sliding off the gauntlet and storing it away in her bag. The girl’s body goes into the grimy skip on the edge of the alley. Suzie’s mind buzzes for a short while as she pulls out of the car park and eases out into the street. The darkness sucks at her and the buzz fades, the whisper and flashing spark already gone to nearly nothing and Suzie already desperately wants it back.

In the darkness of the drive, Suzie remembers how she wanted to learn, how she wanted to do good for the planet. She remembers sitting in class and knowing she was going to _be something_ in this world. She remembers every person she knew telling her that she had such potential, that she was a genius, that she’d go far, that she’d do something brilliant with her life. But Torchwood pulls down even the best and now she’s stuck with this dark needy hum of addiction, the tug and beckoning of the cool metal gauntlet. She’s stuck with death all around her and an insatiable need to combat it in the worst way possible. It makes her want to weep.

She used to have such potential. She used to be so good. Now she’s nothing but sliding into insanity and darkness and she knows there’s no way to stop it. Not so long as she has Torchwood to feed her new obsession and the torn open roiling black in her heart. Not so long as she can defeat death, even at others’ expense. They’re not her problem anymore, just consequential subjects in her newest study in feeding her addiction to the whisper and hum of the metal glove and ringing song of its partner blade, her obsession with life in death.


End file.
